


good winter, i'll be with you

by yabakuboi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Post-Season/Series Finale, Sexual exploration, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yabakuboi/pseuds/yabakuboi
Summary: Jon follows the wildlings past the wall and into winter, never expecting to find anything more than a snowy grave and the quiet death of the North.





	1. new year for the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse my spelling mistakes. I have no excuse beyond being lazy.

“Bloody cold, innit?” Tormund says, climbing through the tent flaps. Jon says nothing, just tucks himself a little closer to where Ghost is curled up on the furs beside him. The direwolf flicks his good ear at him, content to continue napping despite Jon’s weight on his side and Tormund's scrabbling to find room on Jon’s other side.

And it is, cold that is. Winter had taken hold long before Jon had rode north to the wall, not sparing even a moment to take his oaths before riding past Castle Black and into the wilds.

“Move over you lumps,” Tormund growls. He gives Jon a mighty shove into Ghost, who growls and gets to his feet.

“There goes all the heat,” Jon grumbles as Ghost disappears back through the tent opening, mourning the warmth that’s steadily sucked away in the cold night.

Tormund chuckles, pulling his own set of furs over him, and leans in to whisper hotly into Jon’s ear, “I can heat you better than any beast, pup.”

Jon swats at him, and Tormund backs off with a crack of laughter. He settles in close regardless, and Jon does his best to ignore the shudder of his own spine. Tormund is warm at his back, his breath hot on Jon’s neck and he can smell the hard liquor the free folk like to drink on the coldest winter nights.

“It doesn’t freeze,” Tormund had told him with a grin, his face as red as his hair. “Can’t beat that, can you Snow?”

The wildlings had lead him past the trees and rivers and mountains, far out into the wild. What was left of them after war had split off, finding home in whatever had survived the undead army, but many of them had continued north, following Tormund, and Jon with him. He wasn’t sure when Tormund had decided his tent as also Jon’s tent, but on the first night north of the wall, they’d crawled together beneath the hard canvas, Ghost with them, and Jon had tried to ignore the way his heart had stuttered with relief.

“We’ll be getting close to the valley,” Tormund is saying in the quiet of the tent, his words slurring together. “Maybe a few days ride left.”

“That so?” Jon doesn’t like the sound of his voice, but Tormund will fall asleep to the silence.

Tormund grunts, and throws an arm around Jon. Stiffening at the touch, Jon tries to suppress another shudder that crawls hot down his middle. “Aye,” Tormund says, heedless of Jon’s tense body as he shuffles closer, the fur blankets and their clothes their only barrier.

Jon tells himself that Tormund does this because he’s drunk or because he’s cold, or because he’s worried Jon will freeze in the night. He feels like a child, curled underneath Tormund’s arm.

“There, we’ll build us a house, nice and warm to keep your sorry southern ass alive all fucking winter.” Tormund’s voice a deep rumble, vibrating against Jon’s back, and there’s a slow heat pooling in Jon’s belly as he talks. “Big enough for you and me, and that beast of yours.”

“Yeah?” Jon breathes.

“Mmhm,” Tormund mumbles, drifting to sleep. “Taking good care of you, Jon Snow.”

Jon doesn’t sleep, long into the night and the cold, not foolish enough to believe, but willing enough for a waking dream, with his fingers ghosting just barely over Tormund’s hand where it lays near his cheek.

* * *

There’s a wildling girl that likes to take Jon hunting with her. Her hair is black and her eyes are blacker, her face a warm almond shape, but her smiles are hard to earn. She's barely eleven years, but she still drags Jon along regardless.

“You’re quieter than most of this sorry lot,” Mirma tells him when he asks. Which is true, Jon is quieter now than he’s ever been these days, and much quieter than any of the Free Folk when they’re gathered around a fire. But that’s a weak excuse if he’s ever heard one. “We can’t let that Giantsbane ruin you, anyways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean—?” but Mirma shushes him when she catches sight of a deer.

Later, as he’s butchering it, she looks at him steely eyes. “You’ll not abandon him, will you?”

Jon thinks of how the forest calls to him a night, of how he itches to shed his furs and disappear into the winter, letting the north swallow him whole. “He doesn’t need a bastard like me following him around.”

“Most of us are bastards by your southern standards,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“Maybe,” Jon admits. “But most of you haven’t gutted those you’ve sworn to protect.”

The words taste like poison on his tongue, and he can smell the dragon fire and the melting iron and Dany’s blood on his hands.

“Snow!” Mirma snaps, and Jon gasps, staring at her. She’s looking at him critically now, and he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Clicking her tongue, she takes the knife from his hands and begins to skin the deer herself. “You're worse off than he said.”

Jon swallows and tries to get ahold of himself. “Who?”

Mirma waves the bloody knife at him. “Never you mind,” she says, sounding more like more like Old Nan than a girl. “Help me finish this, alright?”

* * *

There’s a small valley between the Frostfangs, sitting nestled between their high peaks, covered in a blanket of white and the dark green of pine and fir trees. Jon looks down at it from the pass they’re crossing, taking in the beauty of it, the icy lakes and the towering mountains. Below them is a settlement, but Jon can see it’s abandoned, by flee or force, he isn't sure. The Thenns who retreated home were surely killed by the Night King's army. The rest who stayed had died in the war after, fighting for the north, and then for Jon again at King’s Landing. Any remaining would have stayed with their new house and their new banners, south of the wall.

“Good for snatching,” Tormund laughs. “And if they bother coming back, well, it’ll be ours by then!”

Most of the houses are destroyed, burned or broken, but no bodies were left to the freeze. The Free Folk don’t seem discouraged, already pitching tents after a long trek along the Frostfangs. Jon leads his horse as he follows Tormund past the settlement's borders.

“Have you been here before?” he asks, watching Tormund weave them between the broken houses and trees.

“A time or two, as a lad,” Tormund says, grinning at him. “Bloody Thenns have more’n a few sticks up their arses, but they still trade with the rest of us. None of us are too good for a well-crafted blade, you see?”

Jon snorts, “I see.”

“Do you, now?” Tormund turns, eyes excited. “And what do you think of it?”

“Of what?” Jon says, frowning.

“Your new bloody home, you crow bastard!” Tormund booms, throwing his head back with a laugh. Before them is a small clearing, the ashes of what once was a house at its center. “We’ll build it up good and strong before the winter settles hard.”

Staring, Jon approaches where Tormund is surveying the little plot of land. It’s set off towards the side of the village, a little separated from the rest, with a cove of trees at its back leading away to the forest.

“Tormund,” Jon starts, and swallows. “I don’t understand.”

Tormund pulls at his beard, regarding Jon with those bright, blue eyes that Jon sometimes sees in his dreams. “Not sure what you don’t understand, Lord Snow. Were you planning to sleep in the tent all winter.”

“No,” Jon admits. “But… Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?” Ghost emerges from between the trees, eyes glowing red beneath their shadows and tail gently wagging behind him. “For me, I mean.”

With loud guffaw, Tormund throws a heavy arm over Jon’s shoulders. “That’s a bloody fool question,” he says heartily. “Now pitch the damned tent. Need to get started tomorrow, there’s only a few months before winter’s night falls upon us.”

Jon does as he’s told, and that night, when Tormund is laying once again at his back, he tries not to think of the forest’s darkness calling him to a cold, long sleep. Instead he tries to think about the warm weight at his back, and Tormund’s laughter echoing through the valley, blue eyes smiling at Jon like he wasn’t any less of a man.


	2. wishes and your will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points at the slow burn tag* i don't like it either, but we're going have to deal with it

Jon wakes with gasp, icy air filling his lungs and prickling at his insides. He’s cold, it’s so cold, that he thinks he’s dead again, and maybe he’s been dead this whole time. It would be what he deserves. He tries to breathe, tries, but now nothing works because Jon is dead, he’s dead and he’s the one who killed Dany—

Hot hands close around his face, and there are blue eyes, burning through him. “Breathe, pup,” says a voice, harsh but kind. “Breathe for me.”

Jon breathes, a drowning man underwater.

“That’s it, Jon, just breathe.”

Jon breathes. The cold recedes and the only thing he can feel are Tormund’s hands on his face and Tormund’s eyes piercing through him, fierce and wild. He can just barely see him in the darkness, only the dying embers of last night’s fire casting a dim glow through the tent.

Tormund pulls him close, their foreheads resting together, and Jon has to bite back a sob, swallowing it all down and gasping for another breath.

“Are you with me?” Tormund whispers, too quiet next to Jon’s ragged panting.

His voice is shredded when Jon finally manages to speak. “S-Sorry,” he croaks, and there’s the bite of tears in his eyes, and he almost wants to apologize for every damned thing he’s ever done, but Tormund shushes him.

“None of that now,” he says.

He pulls Jon back to the ground, yanking all the furs and blankets over the both of them and cradling Jon to his side. Jon lets him, buries his face in Tormund’s shoulder and bites his tongue bloody. The last person he’d been so close with was Dany, her petite body small against Jon's chest, but Jon pushes that violently away, can’t think of it now.

“Hush now, Snow,” Tormund murmurs into Jon’s hair. “Still many hours before the sun’s up. Sleep now.”

“I am not a child,” Jon says around the heavy lump in his throat.

“Aye, I know.” There are fingers pressing into Jon’s shoulders, gentle through all the layers. “You haven’t been a child in a good long time,” Tormund says, and his words are full of sadness.

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, so he buries himself further into Tormund’s arms and tries not to wish for things he doesn’t deserve.

* * *

The house, as Tormund calls it, is coming along well. It’s different from the other wildlings’ constructions, that are made of curved wood and animal skins. Tormund had them both chopping down several sturdy pines, cutting them down to length and placing them in a round pattern, stacking them high until they came together at the top, a great wooden dome amongst the white, woolen tents. They left two doors, one big enough for Tormund to comfortably fit through, and another smaller one towards the back, just for Ghost.

It takes them weeks to finish it, packing the cracks with clay mud even as the snow covers the top inch by inch. They line the inside with furs to keep in the heat, and dig the fire pit deep, right in the middle of it, smoke curling up through the little opening left at the top.

“I’ve never seen a wildling house like this,” Jon says, piling up their stack of firewood high.

Tormund shrugs, grins at Jon over his shoulder. “Figured I’d build it more like your kneeler houses, without hauling all the damn stones down the mountain.”

Jon snorts. “Kneeler houses aren’t round.”

“Good thing we’re not kneelers then.”

Not for the first time does Jon wonder why Tormund goes to the trouble. Wonders if he’ll disappear back towards the Fist or maybe to Hardhome, gone to find his daughters. Tormund never tells him one way or the other, so Jon just helps him pile up firewood and grain and vegetables, enough for two and maybe a direwolf if it comes down to it.

“Yes,” Jon says and lets Tormund throw an arm over his shoulders, pulling him through what is now the front door and into the open air. “I suppose so.”

It’s snowing, a soft flurry, and there’s a pack of wildling boys racing through the gers. They thunder past and through the two of them, and it’s then that Ghost darts past on silent feet, hot on their heels. He pauses a moment to notice Jon.

“Don’t eat them,” Jon says, and Ghost flicks his ear at him before loping away after the shrieking of children.

Tormund laughs loud as his ghostly tail disappears over the hill. “How in the seven hells did you get a bloody direwolf to play nice with younglings is beyond me,” he says, pulling Jon back to his side as they make their way towards the bonfire at the center of their impromptu village.

* * *

He hates the quiet. 

Dany had been near silent when he’d killed her. She’d gone oh, so still. So had Ygritte. It’s been so long since Jon has thought about the fire-kissed wildling. She’d died quiet as well, only a whisper of a breath.

Jon betrayed them both.

* * *

The fire crackles and snaps loud in the night, heating their toes and their faces as they eat, their little tribe huddled together in the growing cold. Three wildling children are curled around Jon’s side, their hands in Ghost’s fur at his feet. Jon’s almost positive none of the Free Folk would look at him twice if not for the direwolf, whom is well-loved despite his size and his teeth. He never finds himself for want of company long, when the children are often at Ghost’s sides for a pet.

Ghost for his part enjoys the attention, his tail a rhythmic thump on the snow packed ground.

Sometimes they ask him for stories, and he’ll tell them as best he can, his heart aching for Rickon and Arya and Bran, the siblings he knew as a child.

This night though, he is spared, the three of them listening to Tormund’s booming voice across the fire, weaving some fantastical tale that Jon’s heard too many variations of to pay much mind.

“Did he really fuck a bear?” the boy at Jon’s right asks. Jon’s pretty sure his name is Greval, but they usually just shout curses at each other, so he’s not sure.

Jon looks up, and sure enough, Tormund is telling the story of how he fucked a bear.

“If he did, I’d feel sorry for the bear,” Mirma says loudly from nearby. “Getting fucked by an ugly cunt like that.”

Tormund throws his head back at that, laughing wildly, and the men around him do the same. Mirma snorts, watching them make a show of it, pounding Tormund on the back and jeering at him. There’s a scuffle, and Tormund has two of them in a headlock, rolling around in the snow.

“Not sure what you see in him, crow,” says another woman, pretty and plump, looking at Jon from the corner of her eye. “Then again, Tormund’s always been a loud bastard.”

“Aye,” Jon says, forcing up a quirk of his lips and finding it easier than he expected to smile. “He’s loud enough for the both of us.”

* * *

He only just remembers death himself. He only remembers the coldness of it, the vast emptiness sitting heavy in the middle of his chest, a thick weight trying to push him down, down into the earth. He only remembers the true nothingness that had settled heavily over him, stealing his breath and his warmth, his sight and his hearing, stealing everything from him until he was less than a stone on the ground.

And he remembers best the silence.

Tonight is colder than the last, and the snow muffles everything. The hut is looking more like an igloo, while the other wildling homes are knocked of their snow every morning. Jon can’t hear the others from outside of their warm, little Tormund-made cave. For all Jon knows, nothing exists outside, and the world may have gone silent without him knowing.

But nothing is ever too quiet when Tormund is close by.

He snores heavily with an arm around Jon’s middle and his hand buried under Ghost’s bulk on Jon’s other side. Jon’s almost too warm between the two, but he’s not fool enough yet to complain about it. Carefully, Jon moves, turning over underneath Tormund’s arm. Ghost blinks one sleepy eye at him, yawning wide and rolling a little closer.

Jon gingerly lays his head on Tormund’s shoulder, letting himself curl into the other man, listening intently to the boom of Tormund’s heart in his chest.

He tries to sleep.


	3. I and tangled spines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sundays are for crying softy about Jonmund

Frost is crawling high up the trees, the evergreens coated in a layer of white. Jon pushes aside his Night’s Watch cloak—where Tormund had happily nailed it above the door—to look out into the growing drifts of snow. Ghost has already plowed his own path through the layers, and Jon has to struggle in his wake, his boots sinking down in the freshly churned ice.

Mirma meets him on the forest’s edge. She barely acknowledges him, just the slightest of nods in greeting, before they’re both slinking together through the trees.

The activity of the village fades and around them the forest is silent. Game has long been hard to come by, and with the darkening winter, any living creature has become more and more scarce. They’re hiking for hours when they catch a glimpse of a small pitying of doves, their white feathers hiding them in the winter snow.

Jon knocks an arrow, takes aim just the same as Mirma, and releases the bow string.

There’s the muffled thunk of the arrows' landing, and then the sudden flutter of wings, the doves taking flight. Mirma manages to shoot down two more and dashes off to find her pickings in the brush. Jon doesn’t look up as she goes, frozen. Willing himself forward, he stands over the two little bodies, the neat stems of the arrows raising up out of the white, like flags, like surrender. There’s blood in the snow.

Jon doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, until Mirma crouches down to tuck the doves away into her bag. She doesn’t speak, just takes Jon’s hand and leads him home.

* * *

That night, Tormund takes one look at him before pushing him to the ground by their fire, throwing a pelt in his face before disappearing out into the dusk. Jon lets him go, pulling the fur blanket around his shoulders and leaning heavily on Ghost’s side and closes his eyes.

Dozing, he dreams a boy’s dream, one he hadn’t had since he was barely four years, Catelyn brushing aside Jon’s curls the same she’d do to Robb, a gentleness that his father’s wife would never afford Jon outside of his sleep.

He wakes to Tormund’s fingers in his hair, his hand broad and gentle against Jon’s head.

“Thinking of hibernating already there, Snow?” Tormund teases, but his voice has dropped low. He gives Jon’s hair a playful tug before he pulls away.

Jon takes the bowl and hot meal that Tormund offers him, sipping at the thin stew that burns his tongue. The Free Folk smoke and dry any food that can for winter, storing it away for the long night. Everything else goes into the pot that they water down with fresh snow and flavored with bear’s garlic. It makes for a hot meal, and though Jon barely tastes it, it fills his stomach all the same.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Tormund says, noisily slurping his dinner down.

It’s then that Jon realizes that Tormund’s been speaking this entire time. “Sorry,” he croaks, clears his throat when his voices cracks on the word. “I mean, I—”

Tormund snorts. “Save your pretty apologies for someone who cares to hear them.” He grins at Jon as he says it, and not for the first time does Jon wonder how he earned Tormund’s kindness. The man throws his arm around Jon’s shoulder, tucking him against his side. “Did I ever tell you about my first hunt as a boy?”

He can’t find it in himself to focus as Tormund talks, sinking into Tormund’s heat and listening to the rumble of his voice. Tormund smells like winter and forest, like the campfire, like a wild animal, and Jon buries his nose into the gray fur coat, breathing deeply.

Jon wakes the next morning still curled into Tormund’s hold, Tormund’s fingers in his hair and the big wildling humming under his breath as the sun’s weak light peaks through the cracks in the snow. There are no nightmares chasing him from sleep, but Jon can’t be thankful, or guilty, or anything else, as Tormund scrapes his nails against his scalp, gentle and sweet, and Jon finds his eyes closing again.

* * *

The forest is growing darker and colder, its call becomes almost unbearable and its silence stealing Jon’s mind little by little, until he finds himself alone in its depths and forced to follow his own tracks back home as night settles. Ghost always meets him halfway, and Tormund’s smiles are tight as he teases Jon for wandering too far like a child.

When he’s not lost amongst it, his eyes are. And Jon itches to disappear.

* * *

“Good morning, crow-brother,” is the only warning Jon gets before someone nearly sends him into the fire with a hard thump on his back. The knife he’d been using to carve a pair of new buttons for Tormund’s coat falls in the snow between his feet.

Mirma huffs. “Don’t burn the crow, Hrenna.”

Hrenna laughs, her thick, fly-away hair thrown over her shoulder. Jon recognizes her as one of the few of the Free Folk that will easily speak with him, where most give him a respectful distance. “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” she says, her round, plump cheeks red from the cold. “Tormund would gut me if I blistered his boy.”

“I’m not his boy,” Jon says automatically, picking up his knife and whittling away at the birch wood in his hands, ignoring Mirma’s glower.

“You’re not are you?” Hrenna says, sitting down beside him and propping her feet close to the fire.

“No,” Jon agrees.

Snorting, she begins to brush through her tangled hair with her fingers, pulling the pieces apart to twist into a long, golden braid. “I suppose you Southerns do it differently than us. Shame though, Tormund’s well liked.”

“Hrenna, shut up!” Mirma snaps before Jon can even look up. The two women are glaring at each other, Mirma’s fingers clutched tight to the arrow she was sharpening.

“What’s a shame?” he asks, but they both ignore him.

“Nothing,” Mirma says, and her eyes are flinty when they land on Jon. They flick down to Jon’s whittling and back up. “Do you even know how to sew?”

Jon flushes, caught out. “Can’t be that hard to stitch on a few buttons, can it?”

And like that, the tension dies away as Hrenna lets out a boisterous laugh and Mirma shakes her head. The blond wildling pulls out her needle and thread, and Jon spends the rest of the morning making crooked stitches in his own coat under her watchful eye. She leaves him to it as the sun already begins to dip down again just after noon, and the hunting party returns, empty handed again.

“You must be good luck, Snow,” one man calls out as he trudges by. “There’s nothing out there for our arrows.”

Grimacing, Jon hunches his shoulders and gives the man a nod as he heads for home. It’s true that only he and Mirma have brought back any fresh game since the doves, but he’s sure that’s more to do with Mirma’s skill than Jon’s luck.

Jon’s not sure if his luck is worth much at all.

Mirma stands. “We’ll go out again in the morning,” she says, and there’s no room for argument despite the top of her head barely reaching Jon’s chest. Distantly, he thinks of Arya, the Arya he knows now who is slow to smile and slower to warmth. The wildling girl eyes him for a moment, the black of her gaze piercing him through.

“Tormund…” she starts, and Jon’s never seen her so reluctant. “What do you think of him?”

The question surprises Jon in a way that he never has been before. “I would think it obvious,” he says slowly. “I think very highly of him, and I owe him a great debt.” Jon pauses, suddenly unable to meet Mirma’s eyes. “He’s been kind to me.”

“It is true,” Mirma says. “At least you know that.”

“Aye, I know it better than anything else these days.”

“But, what do you not know, Snow?” she asks, and Jon’s head snaps up. Mirma’s smile is soft and sad, and she looks older than any eleven year old, she looks ancient. He thinks of Ygritte’s dying words and has to swallow back the sudden emotion rising in his throat.

* * *

Jon finds Tormund in their hut, sitting beside their fire and singing to himself. It’s a soft song, quiet and sad, and it makes Jon’s heart close up like a fist in his chest. Tormund doesn’t look up when Jon steps through the door and jolts when Jon plops himself down beside him, resting heavily against his shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” he says when Tormund stutters into silence.

Tormund huffs, and he begins again. Jon half expected him to start off on some jaunty ditty, but instead he picks up where he left off, his voice gruff and unsure as he sings. Hesitantly, Tormund’s arm wraps around Jon’s back, and Jon leans into the touch.


	4. into that wild haired gale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Local Sad Man Confused By His Own Feelings: Pretty Sure It's A Stomach Bug" and more at 6 on Channel News Jonmund

“It won’t be long now,” Tormund says. It is morning, but they only know it by logs on the fire. The sun has yet to rise over the mountains, and there’s just barely a golden glow around their darkened peaks. “The long night is on us.”

Dread fills Jon’s stomach, but they’re as prepared as they’ll ever be. He sends a short prayer up to the old gods, for Sansa and Bran, for Arya, for Mirma and his new people in the Free Folk, that this winter will be quick to melt, that they won’t all starve in the darkness.

Selfishly, he says a prayer for himself as well. Asking for things he doesn’t deserve is something Jon learned not to entertain a long, long time ago, when he wanted to wear the Stark sigil as proudly on his chest as Robb once had. But maybe this prayer is a little simpler to grant: for Tormund to live a long life, to find his daughters, and maybe, if the gods be kind, to never leave Jon behind.

Tormund breathes deeply, bracing himself, and pats Jon on the shoulder.

“Off we go, Snow. There’s still more work to be done.” And off they go.

* * *

Tormund has spent his days chopping firewood, felling large oaks and pines, sawing them down and adding them to the growing stock. The Free Folk save everything for the winter night, and when food needs to be rationed, it’s no good to be spending great amounts of energy cutting trees in the dark. They only chop down one for every ten around their village, so the forest is still thick enough to shelter them from the winter winds and storms. When Jon isn’t hunting with Mirma, he’s helping haul firewood back and splitting logs into lighter pieces to divide among the families.

But there are a few days when Tormund takes Jon onto the lake, and they carve a hole in the ice, already a foot thick, to fish. Jon builds a small fire at their backs, a square stack of wood on top of the ice to keep them warm.

“My damned arse is going to freeze off,” Jon complains. Fishing is boring work, but Tormund passes his drink to share. Jon sniffs it suspiciously. “What in the hells is this?”

“Tsegee,” Tormund says, grinning. “Goat’s milk made to warm you to your toes. And if you don’t want it, give it here.”

Jon takes a sip and nearly chokes on it, shoving it back at Tormund who’s laughing too hard to take it. “Tastes like shit,” he gags, but already there is warmth spreading through Jon’s chest.

“You’ve been eating shit there, Lord Crow?” Jon gives Tormund a mighty shove, barely managing to unseat the big man. Tormund throws an arm around Jon’s shoulder, barely flinching when he gets an elbow to his side. Jon sinks into it, the familiar warmth of it, and pretends that he’s not wrong, that he’s not broken, and swallows his guilt and his shame down, deep into this chest.

* * *

Tormund catches Jon just at the forest’s edge. There is only darkness among the pines, a cold quiet of nothingness. There are no birds, no squirrels, no green. Just barren tree trunks and empty branches, black and brown and white.

It reminds Jon of death, but in death there is no Tormund to take his hand and pull him away.

* * *

The liquor is hot on Jon’s tongue, bitter compared to the tsegee’s sour taste that coats the tongue. Jon tips his head back all the same, letting the cold fire slide down his throat. The Free Folk flanking him roar with laughter at his puckered face, slapping him on the back when he manages to keep it down.

“There you go, brother!” crows a man that Jon only knows as Whitebone, his large, thin hand on his shoulder, shaking him heartily. “You’re drinking like a real man of the Free Folk now!”

“Aye, a true northern we’ve made him!” Tormund shouts from across the gathering, his horn of drink splashing across his nearby mates. Lit by the flames against the darkness of night, Tormund truly looks as if he’s kissed by fire, face glowing in the light. “And get yer fucking hands off him, you lousy bastard!”

Whitebone laughs and puts Jon in headlock. The liquor sloshes in Jon’s belly and he thinks it would serve Whitebone right if he were to puke his guts up on him.

It’s two women who come to save him, and Jon catches Hrenna’s parting wink as she drags Whitebone away, turning in a quick dance that doesn’t much match the song being played by a pair of wooden flutes. Jon only just realizes there’s music at all, barely heard over the shouting and laughter, the last celebration before the long night falls.

Jon takes another long drink of liquor, and watches it all pass him by.

He’s good and dizzy by the time Tormund comes to him, lifting him up by his collar. “Let’s get you to bed, crow,” he says, pulling Jon to his side. There’s the sound of whooping around them, and Tormund shouts at the drunken men and women still stubbornly by the fire. Jon doesn’t pay it mind because Tormund’s arm is wrapped around his waist and holding him up, and Jon can only think of Tormund’s shape pressed flushed to his own.

It’s quieter as they walk away, the darkness lit only by the moon, near silent as they approach the hut, the sound not carried well over the snow.

Jon hates the quiet.

“Well, would you rather I sing for you?” Tormund asks, his laughter breaking the silence like a kindness.

Tipping his head back to look up at Tormund, and nearly toppling over for his trouble, Jon feels a slow smile spread across his face. “Aye, that’d be nice, why don’t you sing for me, wildling.”

Tormund scrunches his nose at him even though he’s grinning. “What am I, some pretty songbird for the great Lord Crow?”

“Aye, but I don’t know about pretty.”

“Ha! It’s a good thing you’re pretty enough for the both of us, aren’t you?” And then Tormund begins to sing, louder and bawdier than any tavern song Jon’s ever heard. Ghost eyes them nastily as they stumble in, huffing as they pile together at his side, Tormund still singing at the top of his lungs and Jon laughing until he can’t breathe.

Tormund finishes his song with on a long note before he, too, dissolves into laughter. “Alright, get off of me you, lump,” he says between his guffawing. He shoves Jon off of him, and throws another log on their fire before settling back into Jon’s side.

Their laughter dies slowly, the stillness of the late night settling in easily between them.

Until Jon speaks. “What do you want most in this world?” he asks before he’s thought it. But his head is spinning too much for him to care, and there’s a voice in him—a voice that’s told him nastily not to think the things he does when Tormund smiles or laughs or touches Jon—that is gagged by the drunken spin of heat and liquor in Jon's head.

Tormund grunts. “A good place to lay my head, plenty of food to eat, and someone sweet to fuck,” he says simply. He gives Jon a squeeze around his shoulders as he says it. When he next speaks, it’s a gentle question, like he knows Jon’s answer could never be an easy one.

“And you, pup? What is it you want most?”

Jon hums, closing his eyes, and sighs. “To walk out into the forest and die for sure this time.”

Tormund stiffens against him, but Jon’s head is twirling, swimming, like smoke in between his ears.

“I’d just go to sleep,” Jon says. He doesn’t realize he’s listing to the side until his head rests against Tormund’s shoulder. Tormund is warm and solid, so Jon presses himself closer, rubbing his face into his fur coat. “Might be more gentle than I deserve,” Jon mumbles. “But I and the gods know, I don’t deserve any of this that you've given me.” The fire crackles before them, and Jon feels himself drifting, drifting, drifting.

Tormund says nothing at all.


	5. time I realize gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy father's day to ned stark only who raised three kings, a queen, and the absolute badass, god-killing motherfucker that is arya, long may she fuck everyone up amen

Jon wakes to an aching head and a mouth full of Tormund’s hair, red locks coarse and tickling at Jon’s chin and nose. He swats at it, and feels bile rise in his throat when Tormund tightens his hold around him, thick arms encircling Jon’s waist with his head on Jon’s chest.

“Tormund,” he groans, swallowing his nausea down. Jon struggles for a moment in Tormund’s hold, before collapsing and letting his arms settle around Tormund’s shoulders.

His head is swimming and it makes him sick, but Tormund is warm and solid against him. Jon may still be a little drunk, but the morning is dark enough to hide some sins, so he lets himself run his fingers through the thick mane of hair atop Tormund’s head, brushing out tangles and snares. Tormund doesn’t stir, doesn’t move, his arms tight around Jon. Closing his eyes and willing his stomach to settle, Jon lays there quietly, his fingers tangling in Tormund’s hair.

When Tormund shifts, finally rising, it’s not with new wakefulness. His eyes are red and exhausted, and Jon knows then that Tormund was awake the entire time. His face burns with the shame of it, but Tormund only offers him a tired smile.

* * *

The long night falls on them like snow, slow and quiet and deadly, there all at once. They watch from the fire, some forty odd wildlings, Jon, and Ghost, as the weak glow behind the mountains fades into true night, the valley in a permanent cast of shadow. Winter is here, Jon thinks, and he wonders who it will steal in the black years to come.

The sun never rises again, leaving them in a long, everlasting dusk. And soon, that too will grow dark.

* * *

Jon steps out of their hut with only the moon to light his way, but it is heavy and full, bright enough that Jon can see the village through the dark. The gers are covered in layers of snow now, looking like little hills in the small cove of their village. Pine pitch torches burn on, a ring of embers around their homes, marking their border and keeping away the night predators.

Ghost leans into Jon’s side, his nose in the air and his ear twitching left and right. Jon runs a hand across the wolf’s head, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of Ghost’s skull where his other ear once was.

Behind them, the forest is dark. It feels like eyes on the back of Jon’s head.

“Jon,” Tormund calls. He steps out of the house, and Jon can see the wary expression on his face. “I’ll walk with you.”

He may be a fool, but Jon’s not that thick. “Why would you? There’s no point in both of us freezing out here.”

“Then I’ll go instead.”

There’s nothing of Tormund’s usual cheer in his voice when he speaks. For days now, he’s been quiet and tense, and Jon doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t understand where the singing and the laughter went, left wondering if it was the first thing to be taken by the winter.

“I can pull my own weight, Tormund,” Jon snaps, frustrated because Tormund looks at him with eyes too knowing, and Jon hates himself for wanting to touch him. Hates himself for being weak, for letting himself bury his fears and his shames in Tormund’s voice, for finding safe haven in Tormund’s arms at night. And a part of him hates Tormund too, for the pity, wishing Tormund wouldn’t offer his friendly touches to him anymore.

He turns and stomps away as much anyone can when their feet sink two feet into the snow.

Tormund doesn’t follow, but Jon hunches his shoulders, knowing its Tormund’s eyes that track him as he rounds his way down to the village. Ghost trots ahead, nose to the snow and leaving a trail of giant paw prints behind.

Jon wants to lose himself in the task of circling the village, looking for signs of shadow cats and wolves. But his mind goes back to Tormund, and when he turns to glance home, he can see the silhouette of the wildling, standing like a statue, waiting for him at the door.

* * *

Tormund puts a warm bowl in Jon’s hands, the steaming porridge thick and sweet smelling, flavored with maple and honey. They eat it slowly, together after a long day, though the day had never risen. This night there is still silence between them, and unease, thick as fear, churns in Jon’s chest.

He misses the sound of Tormund’s voice, and he doesn’t know how to draw it out now that the man is silent.

“What,” he starts, and Tormund’s eyes are immediately on him, and Jon wants to flinch away from the intensity of it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tormund says immediately. The Free Folk aren’t fond of lying, Tormund especially, so he’s a poor hand at it. Jon’s known liars, and he’s let himself be lied to all his life. “Are you okay?”

Jon grits his teeth. “I’m fine. Why are you so quiet?”

Tormund at least grimaces. “Lots to think about.”

“You’re not much a man of thought,” Jon says. He gets a glare for that. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry for it, but I’m not your child Tormund.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Tormund growls, and there’s anger in his eyes when he looks at Jon now. That is at least familiar to him. “If you were, I could at least put you over my knee and slap some fucking sense into you.”

Jon flushes, scowling. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Tormund says, his tone harsh and final, and he goes back to his dinner without another word.

* * *

Sleep is only good when Tormund is close.

As Tormund is, laying close to the fire with his back turned to Jon, sleep eludes Jon, despite Ghost’s nearby warmth. He wants to reach out, touch Tormund’s shoulder or his hair, but there is too much shame bubbling beneath Jon’s skin, so he stays still.

It isn’t done, Jon remembers, these feelings sitting heavy in Jon’s chest. The need to press himself into Tormund’s hold, wishing more and more he could pour himself into the other man until there was nothing of himself besides all that Tormund could hold within himself. Tormund is big and broad and his hands are sure when he touches Jon, gentle, firm, anchoring, when all Jon wants is to drift away.

It isn’t done, Jon tells himself, twists where he lays, and keeps the distance between them.

Tormund looks as ill and exhausted as Jon feels the next morning, and every night after, he pulls Jon close and they sleep, breathing each other’s air.

* * *

Jon dreams of blood and steel, dragon fire hot on his skin. He dreams of people he loved, people he lost, and the people he killed. At one time, Jon was good at killing the people he loved.

Ned Stark was a man who cut an imposing figure, his broad chest and shoulders standing ever taller than Jon. When he was a child, it was a comfort. His father was always Jon’s protector, Jon’s mentor, Jon’s confidant. Even if Jon was his bastard, Ned had only ever shown fondness and love for his son. But as Jon blinks his eyes open in the darkness, Tormund curled around his back and Ghost’s nose pressed into his belly, Jon only feels fear as Ned stands over him. His father stares at Jon, laying under the arm of another man, and his face is shadowed by the night.

“Father,” Jon rasps. He cannot move, frozen under the weight of his own terror. “Please.”

The dark figure kneels and the dim light of the smoldering embers throws Ned’s face in an orange glow. He looks as if he’s on fire. His eyes are deep and sad, but they curve up and crinkle when Ned smiles. He looks like Jon remembers him last, a powerful, kind man, sitting proud atop his horse on his way to King’s landing.

“Jon,” Ned murmurs, his voice a breath of winter wind.

He reaches out a hand, placing his palm against Jon’s cheek as he smiles down at him. The touch is ice.

“Please,” Jon sobs. His tears are hot on his face. “I’m sorry.”

Ned leans down, down until he can press a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead and Jon trembles beneath the touch, cold as death. He shudders when his father swipes his thumb across his face, wiping his tears away as if Jon was still a babe in his arm.

“Please.”

“Jon,” Ned says again, his old, weathered face pulled up and creased by his smile. “My son,” he says, and there’s so much love in those words that Jon’s chest aches as if he’s been pierced by a blade. And then Ned stands to walk away, and all Jon wishes to do is to get up and chase him.

Tormund wakes to Jon’s crying and pulls Jon impossibly closer, whispering into his ear. “It’s okay, my little crow,” he says, voice sleep thick and sweet as honey. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Jon buries himself in to Tormund’s chest, and when he wakes in the morning, there’s nothing to suggest that Ned Stark had been there at all.


	6. so slow on the split

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt uncommonly Shakespearian with my dead dad ghost last chapter. I promise to not drown Tormund in a puddle.  
> ALSO I'm super behind on replying to your comments, but I read every one of them! Hopefully my late replies don't both you!

The fire at the center of the village is never left unattended for long. They’re lucky, the Frost Fangs have shield them from every storm so far, but there is unease. Luck is something that regularly runs out when you really need it, and Jon has seen the elders eyeing the stars with mistrust. They pull Tormund into their tents regularly, and Tormund always emerges, made of stiff lines and stiffer words.

Jon stays out of his way as much as he can.

There’s something wrong between them, and Jon knows it too well. So he only allows himself close to Tormund again in their sleep, when his body isn’t his own. He’s beginning to think there’s a beast inside of him, a pathetic thing that whines and begs for Tormund when he isn’t near.

The sooner Jon can put a leash on it, the better off they will all be.

* * *

Sitting on the frozen stump, Jon lets himself not think for once, and instead feeds the real flames in front of him with several more logs. Ghost sits at his feet, lounging like a lazy cat against his knees. It’s unusual for him to be out, having spent most of the past few months sleeping through the long night.

He runs his hands through Ghost’s fur, wishing he could feel it on his skin, and thinks of the days he used to run on four legs as Ghost in his dreams. Jon hasn’t been able to do that in years now, not since he died.

“Frozen yet, crow?”

Jon looks up as Whitebone joins him, dressed in less layers than Jon, or anyone else in the village for that matter. He seems more adept to the snow than all of the wildlings.

“Not quite,” Jon says. “But we’re not all half-wight, are we?”

Whitebone’s mouth pulls up in a nasty grin, but there’s no malice in his face. “Well, you wouldn’t be too buggered about the cold neither, if one of the bastards had sunk their teeth in you.” He throws an arm good-naturedly over Jon’s shoulder regardless, sitting close to seal some heat between them.

“I suppose so,” Jon says with a laugh.

“I supposing so, too,” Whitebone says with a grin. “Sit with me a bit then, before you go up to your man.”

Stiffening, Jon draws himself away, putting space between them. “Tormund’s not my man.”

“Who said anything about Tormund?” He laughs when Jon scowls at him. “Alright, alright, I won’t pretend to know what’s going on in you damned Southern head. Go get where it’s warm.”

Jon doesn’t bother to correct anyone that he’s not a Southern anymore, just sighs and trudges his way home with Ghost at his heels.

* * *

Sleep is not kind to Jon. It hasn’t been since there were six swords biting through his flesh.

* * *

He could say that Tormund sleeps like the dead, except for how alive he is. He may be still, his face smooth, but Tormund snores loudly, and there is life evident in his skin, in his heat. He comes awake as easily as he goes to sleep, his eyes opening, bright and aware each dark morning. Jon envies him, especially now sitting alone beside Tormund, listening to his snoring and trying not to watch his sleep, Tormund's arm loosely thrown around Jon’s waist.

Instead, Jon distracts himself by tracing the scars along Tormund’s hand, the broken skin of his knuckles and the blunt edges of his nails. Tormund’s fingers are thick and strong, rough after a life of hard living. Jon drags his fingertips along them, as he’s done many lonely nights before.

* * *

He doesn’t notice how quiet the hut has become until Tormund speaks.

“You have to quit running, boy.”

Jon hunches his shoulders, bending himself closer to the fire. It’s impossible to get warm, and already he hates the endless night and the endless cold. Ghost sleeps and Tormund sleeps, but Jon only sees ghosts when he closes his eyes.

“I’m not running,” Jon sighs, hates how he sounds petulant to his own ears, hates Tormund for bringing it up.

“You are,” Tormund says. He grabs Jon’s arm and Jon violently shakes it off. “You’ve been running your whole life.”

“I haven’t!” he snaps, jerking himself away when Tormund reaches for him again. “Don’t touch me!”

But Tormund wraps his fingers around Jon’s wrist and his hold is like a vice. The sudden need to get away is as sharp as a pin prick, and something bursts as Jon pulls his fist back. Tormund's nose breaks in a fantastic spill of blood, but he catches Jon’s fist when he tries to punch him again. Snarling, Jon struggles, sending them both to the ground, and Tormund pins him, straddling his kicking feet and pressing him into the bed of furs beneath him. Heat bursts like sparks underneath Jon’s skin, pooling traitorously low in Jon’s belly.

“Let me go, Tormund!”

“Listen to me, you damned fool,” Tormund hisses, blood dripping down his lips, and Jon freezes underneath him.

Jon’s been afraid of Tormund before. He’s seen Tormund angry, seen him beat a man with his own club, but that’s nothing like the rage glinting in Tormund’s eyes now. There’s fear mixing with the heat in Jon's veins now as Tormund looms over him, breath hot in Jon’s face.

“You ran away to the crows,” he says, voice low and sharper than any blade. “Then you ran from them when they gutted you, then you ran from the North. When will you stop?”

“I wasn’t running,” Jon snaps, because even though he’s afraid, he’s pissed. “I did what was right!”

“Aye, it was right. But was it what you wanted?”

“That doesn’t—”

“It wasn’t right unless you wanted it!” Tormund roars. “You didn’t want to be king, you didn’t want to be a crow, and you didn’t want to be a bastard, so you ran from all of it! When will you stop?”

“I wasn’t!” Jon struggles, digging his fingers into Tormund’s, trying to wither away from his touch and his gaze, but Tormund holds him fast. _I wasn’t, I wasn’t, I wasn’t,_ his mind screams, and he wants to scream it into Tormund’s face, but he won’t be brought that low, not again.

“You were.” Tormund presses in close, and Jon wants to bite at him, anything to make Tormund go away. “You still are. They hated you for being a bastard so they told you it was right to go to the wall. They made you take their vows, they made you break them, and they gutted you for it.”

“Stop—” Jon pants, thrashing. “Shut up—!”

“You stole Ygritte because they made you. They gave you that taste of freedom and then took it away. They made you their Lord and then they cut you down. They made you King in the North, and then they made you kneel.”

Jon shivers, his body suddenly weak as Tormund speaks, the fight leaving him. He tries to turn away, to hide his face, but Tormund stares down at him, eyes cold, colder than ice.

“Then they made you into their knife, sharpened you real fine, and hoped that the dragon fire would do away with you after they used you.”

“Please,” Jon whispers.

“And when that didn’t happened, they sent you back up here, and you finally, fucking finally, did the one thing you wanted to do.” Tormund’s voice drops lower, going gentle and sad, and if that beast lives in Jon’s chest, it would howl and claw and tear itself to shreds. There will be bruises on Jon’s wrists later, but Tormund’s hold slackens as Jon goes limp beneath him. He doesn’t move away, his heavy weight bearing down on Jon from above. Jon swallows back his tears. “Why are still running, Jon?”

“I don’t have anything to run from anymore,” he rasps, wishing he could roll over and let Tormund lay at his back. Tormund sits up but Jon doesn’t move, just curls himself into a ball, wishing he weren’t so pathetic, like a dog kicked too many times to bite back. “Just myself.”

Tormund’s voice and hands are too warm and gentle, compared to the ice cutting through his words before. He lifts Jon as if he’s nothing, pulling him up until they’re facing one another, Jon more a doll than a man in his arms.

“You can’t run from yourself, pup. You are who you are,” he says. “I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t.”

Jon gasps as if he’s been struck, pierced through the middle and stealing his breath. And there must be a beast living beneath Jon’s ribs, he's sure of it now, because it howls long and low inside of him. The only sound that comes out of Jon's mouth is a sob.

"Oh." Tormund’s hands come up, cradling Jon’s face between his palms, his fingers warm in Jon’s hair. His face is a picture of shock, wide eyes, slack mouth, the pink of his lips a soft against the firey red of his beard. “You know, don’t you Jon?” he asks, pleading. “Tell me that you know.”

“I—” Jon starts, but he can’t think. Tormund’s so close, and his eyes are so blue that Jon could drown in them. But he can’t think, he can’t understand except to the painful spike of damned hope and the relentless itch that this is _wrong_. This is wrong. “I—” he tries, but he can’t find any words, and Tormund rests their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Tormund says, and his voice is tearful, desperate. “I love you, Jon Snow, and you must know it, somewhere in that damned fool head of yours.”

Tormund is close enough that Jon could lean in a hair’s breadth and kiss him. The thought slithers down and around his neck, choking.

“No…” Jon whispers.

“Yes,” Tormund growls, harsh now, and his eyes are burning. “I love you.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.” He lets Jon wrench himself from his hold, and each bit of space he puts between them feels like nails in his flesh, in his coffin. Tormund draws himself up, rising to his full height as Jon stumbles away. “I am a free man of the North, the true North. I’ll love whoever I choose.” His eyes are burning with enough fire to melt Jon to his bones. “Not even you, Jon Snow, can tell me otherwise.”

So Jon flees.


	7. miles, miles, miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, long time, no see. July was A Month™ but here's a new chapter finally! I should be back on schedule with a chapter a week from now on! Also, if I could direct your attention to above, we now have a full chapter count. Whoo! Thank you for all your lovely comments. I know I never got around to replying, and now it's awkward lmao, but know that I cherish them and they really keep me going! Glad you're all still enjoying this! Also, shout out to the anon who came to my tumblr this weekend to call my ass out, bless you!

Jon doesn’t remember saddling his horse, doesn’t remember sneaking past the wildling man keeping watch by the fire, doesn’t remember leaving the little ring of light and disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

The world is a blur of gray moon-shade stretching long over the snow, and Jon is lucky that moon is heavy and full in the sky, bright enough to cast enough light to see by, the forest made of shadows. His horse heaves underneath him, running fast over the packed banks of snow. Jon knows it’s dangerous, knows the horse could trip in the dark, throw him to the ground, but he has to get away. As far away as she will take him.

“ _Why are you still running, Jon?_ ” Tormund had asked.

“ _I love you_ ,” Tormund had said.

He yanks hard on the reins and the horse lets out a high-pitched shriek, coming to a quick stop. Jon doubles over in his saddle, his face pressed to the horses mane, listening to her pant and wishing for Ghost at his side. They don’t move, the two of them, their breath fogging the air in white mist, sparkling in the weak light. 

“Fuck,” Jon hisses to himself. He drags his gloved hand across his face, wiping away the tears.

Jon is a traitor. It is the one thing that has defined everything he’s done his whole life. Because Jon is a traitor to his own heart. 

Tormund should have known. Tormund knows him better than anyone, so he should have known.

So _why_?

He feels sick, like he might vomit. Stumbling, he gets off his horse, going to his knees in the cold snow and heaves, choking on bile and air. The horse dances nervously on her feet nearby, shying away from the raw sounds of Jon’s sobs. Her eyes are wide and wild, disoriented in the cold dark.  

“Fuck,” Jon sobs. “Gods be fucking damned.”

Sitting back on his feet, he takes a long, prickling breath of winter air. He can smell the stink of his own vomit, the sweat of the horse, the fresh powder of snow, the pines and oaks and cedar. There are tears stinging at his face, hot against cold. His legs and his back ache from the ride. His throat burns, his chest hurts, his eyes are tired, so tired, that he could curl up where he sits and sleep until he dies. His knuckles hurt.

“Damn him,” Jon whispers, blinking past the tears gathering in his vision. “Fucking fool of a wildling.”

His mouth stretches his face, and Jon distantly realizes that he’s smiling as he cries. 

* * *

There are eyes in the dark, always, always, looking for the perfect moment, patiently waiting. Body coiled tight, ready to pounce. The wildlings keep their fires burning to blind any beast in the night. But, can you smell that? Can you hear those cries? It tastes like blood on the tongue. Fire casts the longest shadows, afterall.

* * *

Jon breathes through his nose and out his mouth, collapsed back on his heels in the snow. He sits there for what feels like hours and days, but can’t be that long at all. The stars haven’t shifted. He feels like a frozen statue, cold ice clinging to his skin like fire. 

The forest is still. Silent.

His horse shifts, still at his side even though she could have abandoned him to the frozen night to return to her warm stable amongst the other animals the wildlings have kept. She nudges him gently against his cheek, her warm, velvety nose soft against his skin, snuffling against his shoulder and nibbling at his hair. Her breath tickles his neck until his hand finally comes up to run absentmindedly at her jaw.

She knickers at the touch, pleased. He feels a little guilty for never naming her. 

“What would I even call you?” he says to her, and she snorts, pawing anxiously at the ground.

Huffing a laugh, Jon eases himself to his feet. He feels like he’s a hundred years old, his joints aching in the cold and his skin thin and fragile over his bones. The horse dances around him, urging him on, nudging him harder as if she’s eager to get him moving for home, insistent and demanding.

“Okay, okay,” he says. His chest feels a little lighter, his mouth curving up into a rarely used smile. He pulls himself up onto her back stiffly. He feels worn down, a stone polished smooth in the river current.

“I suppose that’s good enough,” he says to her. “River.”

It reminds him bitterly of Catelyn. But he can love River despite it.

He pulls River’s reins to the side, leading them home. Home where Tormund is—probably pissed off and waiting for Jon to come shuffling back with his tail between his legs. Jon wonders if he’s decided to sleep or decided to drink, or if he’s just pacing the circle of their house and pissing Ghost off as he goes. He almost wants to urge River into another trot, to get home a little faster, but he won’t this time. She carefully picks her way through the dark, stepping gingerly over fallen logs, the moon a wane light through the leaves.

The air is cold, but Jon takes a deep breath of the north air.

The forest is silent.

River stops short, standing stock still in a patch of moonlight, her ears pointed high up and forward.

“What’s wrong,” Jon murmurs, and she flicks an ear at him.

Jon squints into the darkness. There might be a shape, moving beneath the trees. Or it might be his eyes, his imagination. He tries to urge River along, but she refuses to budge.

Her ears press suddenly flat against the back of her skull, and a snarl erupts through the dark. River rears up, screaming, and throws Jon from her back. He hits the snow with a crack of bone and a curse. Beyond them is a slinking shape of shadow, a powerful silhouette with glowing eyes.

A shadow cat.

Jon curses and fumbles for the hilt of Longclaw, hands stiff from the cold. River dances on her back legs, kicking threateningly with her hooves as the cat stalks closer, perfectly at ease in front of its prey. The cat is massive, bigger than the horse, back rippling with deadly muscle and force, coiled up tight. It lunges suddenly, frightfully fast, slashing at River’s throat with long claws. 

Blood splatters across the snow, black in the white light of the moon.

With a yell, Jon forces himself to his feet, his side screaming with pain, and swipes his blade at the dark beast. It dodges him easily and River makes a run for it, kicking up snow and blood as she goes. The cat snarls, but Jon stabs at it again, dragging its attention away from the fleeing horse.

Yowling, it rounds on him with dripping fangs, batting Jon to the side with a powerful swipe. He tumbles away and back to his feet in an instant as it charges him. They collide, man and beast, and Jon’s chest erupts in four lines of fire as claws drag down his front, slicing through wool and meat alike. 

Weakly, he tries to slice the thing’s throat, but it tosses Jon aside again, throwing him into a nearby tree. 

Jon struggles to his feet, the gnarled trunk at his back and his feet tripping on the roots. The cat regards him with yellow eyes, slitted like a snake, an easy meal laid out before it.

Spitting blood, Jon scowls. “Fuck you,” he snarls.

Quick as fire, it lunges at him again, claws at his throat, and Jon only just gets Longclaw up in time to impale the beast under its jaw, dragonsteel biting through bone and flesh and shining with blood as it pierces through the other side. It falls, heavy, across him, stinking of beast and forest and snow.

Blood runs hot down Jon’s face.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

“Jon.”

Whispers, whispers, Jon’s dreams are always whispers. Dany stands over him, with blood all down the front of her dress, eyes dead and cold, and whispers to him. Her lips barely move but he can hear every word, until her mouth opens, impossibly wide, fire on her tongue.

“Jon, you have to wake up.”

Ygritte whispers to him, blood flowing from between her teeth faster than she can speak. She chokes on it, body convulsing where she lays in Jon’s arms, and she whispers to him about betrayal, about love, about how she wishes Jon were dead.

“Please, Jon.”

Ned Stark whispers to him, his broad hand clenched tight around Jon’s throat, his eyes lit with rage.

“Jon! Brother!”

Jon doesn’t open his eyes. He can still feel the cold settling over him like a death cloak, but Bran is crouched beside him, brown eyes full of a desperate fear. Above them, the sun shines down through the ivory limbs of a weirwood tree, leaves as red as blood. 

“Don’t give up now,” Bran says, and his hands are gentle on each side of Jon’s face. “Please, Jon, don’t give up when you can finally have some happiness.”

“Bran,” Jon tries to say, tries to reach for his little brother, but he can’t move, can’t speak.

Bran smiles like he knows exactly what Jon’s thinking. “Please, be happy. I want more than anything for you to be happy, brother.” He leans down and kisses Jon’s forehead like Jon’s done to him so many times before, and warmth blooms through him. Jon can breathe again.

“Jon,” Bran says, gently wiping away his brother’s tears. “Wake up.”

* * *

There’s a long, low howl that pierces through Jon, lancing a festering wound.

Distantly, he can feel four paws racing over snow and rock. There’s a man on his heels, big but quick, quick enough on his feet to keep up with the white ghost dashing through the forest. Jon wants to look back at him, to lift his massive head and breathe in his scent, but there’s something more important. Something else. Something lost in the woods. He can smell the horse sweat and the stink of a predator. He can smell his own blood on the ground.

There’s a shout, several, one booming loud over the others. Jon is simultaneously running over the snow and laying on the roots of a tree, trapped under a heavy weight.

He can see a dark shape in the forest, below a dark face carved into the tree. Ghost lifts his head and howls, and Jon howls with him, and finally opens his eyes.

Tormund is above him, blue eyes as bright as lightning, the only color in the washed out darkness.

The black fur of the shadow cat is flecked with snow, and when Tormund heaves it’s bulk off of Jon, it flops lifelessly on the ground at his feet, sword still impaled through its head. Jon breathes, even though his chest ache and his lungs burn.

There is snow on Jon’s face. Tormund is yelling, but Jon can’t hear him. Can only hear the desperate beating of his own heart in his throat. He feels only numb, and he reaches out, touches the warm heat of Tormund’s face, and Tormund goes still. There’s still blood on Tormund’s face still, caked in his beard, his nose crooked where Jon had punched him.

“Tormund,” Jon says.


	8. carry on my dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really hated this chapter lmao it was tough to write! But it's an important transition, and FINALLY I can focus on the whole reason I started this fic in the first place!!!

There is fire licking wet across Jon’s face and chest, and he wakes with a scream. Above him, there is cursing, strong hands holding his body down as he convulses. Cherng, the wildling hag with steel eyes and white hair, fills his vision as she leans over him, wrinkling her nose as she pours more of white liquor over the open wounds on his chest.

“You’re awake,” she says over his wailing, her voice is as gnarled and aged as her wrinkled face. “Good, fool boy that you are.”

“Tormund,” Jon chokes, and she sharply tuts at him.

“Don’t go calling for your man now,” she snaps. Despite her harsh words, her fingers are incredibly gentle as she inspects the claw marks that have split open the skin of his face, from forehead to jaw. “He’s outside cursing you a storm, so let him be.”

Jon shudders and tries to hold himself still. He distantly notes several men surround him, and it’s Whitebone’s broad hands clamped over Jon’s shoulders to hold him steady. 

Clucking her tongue, the hag sits back. “Damned luck that you didn’t lose an eye, Snow. You’ll need more of it though, if you’re to last the week. Shadowcat wounds are poison, and I can’t save you from the infection no matter how much good liquor I pour on you.”

Shuddering and blinking away tears, Jon nods. “Probably… deserve it,” he bites out around the pain and anguish crawling up his throat, choking him from the inside out.

A waste, he thinks, everything he’s ever done is a waste.

He can’t meet Cherng’s eyes when they soften and fill with pity. She smoothes back his sweaty hair, sopping up the blood dripping down his cheek and into his ear. “Only a direwolf could kill a shadowcat like that, alone in the darkness,” she says quietly, her voice hard and unforgiving, taking a bowl of fresh snow melt from one of the men at her side. She soaks a thick cloth in it, and lays it over Jon’s chest. 

It feels like ice, so cold against Jon’s over-heated skin. The hag packs snow on top of it, her fingers tinged with blue as she works, until Jon’s body is numb with the cold, shaking. The world fades and focuses, and spins in dizzying circles.

“Drink,” another man says, tilting Jon’s head up and pouring the liquor into his mouth. Jon swallows it despite the burn.

Cherng looms over him again. She holds a knife, flaming red with heat. Hands descend upon Jon, holding him down as the snow is scraped from the top of him.

“You fought the teeth,” she says, holding the blade close to tattered flesh of Jon’s chest. “Don’t go dying by the bite.”

She presses the hot metal to Jon’s skin.

* * *

Everything wavers, wiggles, swims, and for a while Jon wonders if he’s under the ice again. But it’s too hot here, too many noises, and too many things touching him all at once. His throat works against the dryness in his mouth, and always there’s a hand at the back of his neck, tilting his head gently up and pressing cool water to his lips. 

Sometimes he thinks he’s back in Winterfell, and Lyanna Stark is singing him a lullaby. But her voice is Sansa’s and her face is Arya’s and her hair is lit with flame. Once he thought he was talking with Grenn and Pip, only to realize that it was Mirma sitting beside him the whole time. The hag is a constant presence looming over him like a threat, waiting through the nights for him to die of infection and sepsis. She cuts open any wound that festers, and seals them back with a burning knife. 

And Jon lingers on, tired of the stink of blood and fever. It smells like death, and death haunts him enough in his sleep.

Tormund is rarely there when he wakes, but there’s always the warm imprint on his palm of a large hand in his, his fingers tingling where they once were entwined with another’s.

* * *

It must be late the next Jon wakes, because the fire is low and the tent is filled with the sound of sleeping bodies. Cherng sits at his side, her legs crossed beneath her and her elbows resting on her knees. She regards him tiredly as he blinks up at her.

“Awake again, are you?” she says, reaching for a bowl. She tips it over his lips and he drinks greedily, the water fresh and cool. “I suppose you’ll live then.”

Jon aches from head to toe, his entire body too heavy to move. But he’s awake. Head lolling to the side, he realizes that Tormund’s at his side, his hand cradled between Tormund’s, his pale skin stark against the freckled tan of Tormund’s fingers. His face is relaxed in sleep, but Jon can see the stress and exhaustion catching tight at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. 

“You owe that boy for staying by your side after you near got yourself killed,” Cherng huffs, her voice quiet in the stillness of the tent.

“I owe him for more than that,” Jon says, his voice barely a rasp and a whisper.

Cherng hums, her old bones audibly cracking as she stretches. “Heal up well then. The best repayment is your life.” She pats Jon’s shoulder before she stands. “Might s’well belong to him now.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. He doesn’t look up as she leaves, her footfalls near silent as she goes, eyes still caught on Tormund’s sleeping face. “It does.”

* * *

The tent is empty, devoid of all the sounds that Jon’s grown used to: the sleeping breaths of the wildlings, Whitebone’s terrible jokes, and Mirma’s soothing voice. Instead Jon can only hear the cackle of the fire and the deafening silence as Tormund stares down at him.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes.

“You’re alive,” Tormund says, his words blunt and cold. “You better be glad, because I would have killed you twice over if you hadn’t.”

Swallowing, Jon nods. Tormund’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, and the silence between them is more painful than the slowly healing scars or the pounding of his head or the thirst in his throat. Jon helplessly searches for the words to thank Tormund, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if he can still stay. He reaches out a shaking hand, wanting even the slightest touch, his fingers brushing against the well-worn fur at Tormund’s ankle.

“Do you know you talk in your sleep?” Tormund says before Jon can gather himself.

Jon doesn’t say anything, just clutches at Tormund’s pant leg and wishing he were strong enough to stand.

“Every night that you’ve slept, ever since you came back from that fucking red city, you’ve begged me to kill you,” Tormund says. “Did you know that?”

Tears brim in the corners of Jon’s eyes. “No,” he croaks. “I didn’t.”

Tormund sighs, bows his head. When he looks once more at Jon, there are tears on his face. He reaches out, tracing the new scar across Jon’s jaw. “I know you need me right now,” Tormund says, his deep voice cracking as he face twists in grief. “But I can’t…”

And Tormund stands. And Tormund walks away. 

Beneath the tattered and burned remains of Jon’s chest, his heart pounds a heavy, drumming beat, more painful than the shadowcat’s claws and teeth in his flesh. Tormund’s already at the doorway before Jon can take a breath. Desperate, he rolls himself to his knees, panting and panicking. He’ll crawl after Tormund if he has to, but he manages to push himself to his feet. Something tears along Jon’s chest, the thin skin of his wounds opening up to the sudden movement.

“Tormund,” he gasps.

Tormund turns, his face a mask of regret.

And Jon’s knees buckle beneath him before he can take one step.

Tormund is there, catching him before he hits the dirt and cursing, hands steady but gentle on Jon’s weakened body. “Why,” he hisses, livid. Anger dances in his eyes as he lays Jon back onto the bedding. “Are you such a fucking fool?”

Jon doesn’t give him another moment to curse him, finding what little strength he has left to lift his hands to Tormund’s hair, to pull him down against his lips, crashing their mouths together. Tormund growls into the kiss, fingers tightening around Jon’s arms and Jon clutches him back, doing anything he can to pull himself closer, to pull himself into some semblance of a man that can breathe in Tormund’s air, taste his warmth, feel his touch. 

Grunting, Tormund presses him to the ground as he kisses Jon, his beard scratching along Jon’s mouth in a pleasant burn, and Jon can’t think past the blood zipping through his veins and the feel of Tormund above him, the expert tilt of his head and the hand that finds its way into Jon’s hair.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes into Tormund’s mouth, desperate tears on his face. “Please, Tormund.”

Tormund shushes him, his kiss turning tender and sweet, stealing Jon’s words before he can speak them until Jon falls limp into his arms, fingers still weakly grasping at Tormund’s hair. 

“S’okay,” Tormund says, backing away only an inch and resting their foreheads together. He cups Jon’s face, thumbs rough against his cheeka as he wipes away Jon’s tears. “S’okay, Jon. Just give me some time.”

Jon nods, swallowing back the urge to cry as Tormund kisses him one last time, mouth soft against Jon’s lips, before he stands and walks away.

* * *

It’s good to be back in the familiarity of the hut, where Jon’s black cloak is still nailed over the door and Tormund’s collection of wooden carvings are scattered around, hanging from the roof as if they’re guarding their heads from the night. Ghost is curled in his corner, the large fur blanket that Jon had skinned and sewn together for the direwolf under his paws and sleeping head. Their pots and cookery are where Jon had left them last, cleaned and unused, and the fire is cackling merrily as if nothing at all has changed.

But Tormund is no where to be seen, and as Hrenna helps Jon to his bed, Jon tries not to dwell on it, tries to bite back the tears threatening to spill over.

“There you go, Snow,” Hrenna says gently as Jon settles onto his back, panting from the short walk up the hill. “Back where you belong.”

Jon nods, not trusting himself to speak. He can’t meet Hrenna’s eyes when her face turns down in sympathy.

“He’s just pissed, that Tormund.” The wildling woman, with her straw colored hair and round face downcast, pulls several blankets over Jon. “He cares a hell of a lot for you, you know. When you— Well, there’s no reason to say.”

“Tell me,” Jon croaks. Shame burns through him as tears roll down his face and into his hair. “Please.”

Hrenna sighs and runs a hand through her flyaway hair. “When you disappeared that night, no one saw you go. Still can’t figure out how you managed it, with the horse. Tormund… I think he thought you were just going on a walkabout to calm down. Said you’d fought, but then that wolf,” he nods to Ghost. “Gets up and starts snarling like nothing else.

“I thought we were under some attack when I saw him, because Tormund had blood all over his face and spitting curses, but when I got a good look at him, I realized how scared he was.”

She stops a moment, shrugs her shoulders.

“Ain’t ever seen him scared. Not like that, not proper scared. Not like his world was ending.”

Jon chokes on a sob, pressing a shaky hand over his eyes, over the raw scars across his face. Hrenna sits silent at his side, with only a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder as he cries.

* * *

Jon sleeps fitfully, in and out, and Hrenna sits with him through most of it, watching silently over him. She changes his bandages, helps him up to relieve himself, feeds him and waters him as his fever comes down and finally breaks. The pain dulls, heals and itches, and Jon’s exhausted when he next wakes to find Hrenna gone and Tormund sitting at his side.

“Tormund,” Jon starts, takes a too-sharp breath that catches painfully in his lungs. He doesn’t quite know what to say, no matter how many times he's thought of it. Doesn’t know if Tormund wants him to say anything at all. “I’m—”

“Save your pretty words for someone who wants to hear them.”

Jon stops short, swallows the leaden weight that’s dropped down his throat. Tormund’s words aren’t harsh, aren’t damning. But it’s enough to make Jon hurt, fresh blood on old wounds.

“I feel like I should say them regardless,” he says, as steadily as he can. He struggles to sit up, struggles to meet Tormund’s eyes. “I know I… broke this. So I need to be the one to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to break,” Tormund says likes it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And Jon wants to cry, wants to beg.

“You’re a man of the Free Folk, Jon,” Tormund says gently, leaning over to press a whiskery kiss to Jon’s forehead. “And the Free Folk don’t break.” His touch is soft as he wipes away the wetness along Jon’s cheek, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you,” Jon says, swallows down the emotion reach up his throat to still his tongue. “Tormund—”

Tormund shushes him, leans over and presses another kiss to Jon’s hair. His beard tickles along Jon’s cheek, and when he draws away, Tormund is smiling. Gingerly, he eases himself by Jon’s side, careful of the still healing gashes that are more burns than anything else across Jon’s front, stretching his arm over Jon’s waist to hold him

Jon lets himself sink into Tormund’s warmth, a solid body at his side.


	9. say the same to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> traditionally i feel like this is a good place for an epilogue. sucks you for you guys, but i want to write a lot of fluff and smut. note the rating change!

Tormund’s fingers are cold against Jon’s skin as he slowly wipes on the foul smelling salve Cherng left with them, the thick yellow goop stinging at his healing injury. He’s gentle, just barely brushing the still-raw edges of the gashes, his face a picture of concentration as he goes.

“It doesn’t hurt that much, Tormund,” Jon says with some humor, wincing as his skin prickles sharply.

“Shut yer yapping, pup.”

“You can just let me do it.” Jon sighs when Tormund scowls at him. “At this rate, I’ll die of old age before infection.”

“You’ll die when I club your head in, you little bastard. Now be still,” Tormund huffs. All the same, he moves with more purpose, applying the medicine with a little more ease before he helps Jon sit up. The two of them struggle to get his shirt over his shoulders, Jon unable to lift his arms much further than his ribs. He’s breathless and shaking by the end of it.

“Thank you,” Jon says, trying for an easy smile as Tormund pushes him back down onto the pallet.

Tormund doesn’t say anything, his eyes soft and still a little pained, but he pulls the furs up tightly around Jon’s chest, burrowing and tucking him in like a child. He hands Jon his book, one of the few he’d brought with him past the wall, and settles at Jon’s side, whittling knife in hand. Their hut is dim but warm, lit only by the center fire and the two small lanterns Jon had fashioned from wood and bone before the long night had fallen. 

Healing is boring work, more boring than the hours they’ve already spent through the winter’s night, when the cold isn’t worth battling just to stretch your legs outside. Jon doesn’t even have the luxury of moving about the hut now, all the energy sapped from him as soon as he moves.

So Jon has read this book several more times in the past few days than he has all year. It’s just a collection of old children’s stories, a gift from Sam, filled with tales of monsters and knights in times far past. Jon remembers sitting with Robb and Theon at Nan’s feet and listening to her weave stories like these, filling their heads with dragons and princesses and battles that seemed too fantastic to be real.

Out of the four of them, Jon’s the only one still alive.

“Read it out loud, at least,” Tormund grumbles, idly carving patterns into what looks like the beginnings of a knife handle.

“Alright then,” Jon says, chuckling. The pages crinkle under his weakened hands as Jon searches for the story he last read to Tormund, squinting at the tight, curling writing in the low light of the lantern. “Hm, we were… _Since they no longer could see the light of the sun, and lowering darkness was down over all, dire under the heavens shadowy beings came going around them_ —”

And Jon speaks, reading the story aloud until he’s done and begins another. Beside him, Tormund is near silent, intently listening and only offering the rare exclamation when a story turns sour as they always do before the hero saves the day. When he looks at Jon though, his eyes are smiling again. So Jon reads on and on until he feels his eyelids droop and his voice wavers.

He barely notices when Tormund pulls the book from his slackend hand, putting it away so he can lay at Jon’s side and pull the covers over them both.

* * *

“Jon.”

Jon lifts his head, blinking away the grogginess clinging to the corners of his eyes. Ghost is warm against his back where Jon has propped himself up against his massive side, breathing slow and deep. “Wha—” he breaks into a long yawn, and when he looks up, Tormund is smiling.

“You shouldn’t be moving around so much,” Tormund scolds him, but Jon is too tired to even roll his eyes.

“S’cold,” is all he says, settling back into Ghost’s thick fur. The direwolf shifts a little, sighs in his sleep.

Tormund sighs. “It is,” he agrees. Jon cracks one eye open, catching Tormund’s torn expression.

Gingerly, Jon sits up, feeling the new, tender skin along his chest and belly pull tightly as if ready to snap. But Jon’s felt worse, so he ignores it as he scoots over. Tormund’s hands are on him immediately, holding his weight as he moves. Once he’s satisfied, Jon lays back again, holding Tormund’s gaze.

“C’mere,” he says, lifts his arm in invitation.

And Tormund goes, sliding easily under the furs piled along Jon’s legs. Ghost barely even registers the extra weight, sleeping on, as Tormund wraps his arms around Jon’s waist, pulling them flush together, chest to chest, their legs tangling. It’s intimate, more so than Tormund’s heavy weight at Jon’s back or Tormun’s arm resting gingerly across Jon’s ripped skin. Jon tucks his face into Tormun’s neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and unwashed skin, fresh snow and pine, fire smoke.

“This okay?”

Tormund’s words are gruff, quiet, and Jon’s too tired to think much of it, cuddles a little closer, his lips brushing along Tormund’s pulse pounding in his neck.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

* * *

Mirma troops in with a heavy frown, her young face pulled down into a fierce look despite the snow clinging to her her clothes and hair.

“Finally all in your head then,” she says icily, and talks over Jon when he opens his mouth. “You near gave my brother an early grave, spiriting away your damned horse right from under his nose like that.”

“Sorry,” Jon says from his spot leaning against Tormund’s side, happy to be sitting upright and awake for the first time in weeks. “Is River okay?”

“She’s fine, had a few knicks along her neck and a little spooked,” Mirma huffs, sitting on Jon’s other side, leaning away from Tormund’s friendly hand going to muss her hair. “Already all healed and fine, thanks to some damned fool trying to sacrifice his life for a horse.”

“Wasn’t her fault they were out there,” Tormund grumbles, sliding away and heading out into the snow. Jon winces, but otherwise says nothing, watching Tormund’s back as he disappears out the door. 

“Still mad then?” Mirma asks, following Jon’s gaze.

“Yes,” Jon sighs. “He’s either right at my side or far away. I don’t… really know what to do.”

“Just give it time.” Mirma rifles through her cloak, pulling a small bag of dried jerky from her pocket. “Felled an elk a few days passed. It was near starved, but it still had some meat on it.”

Jon takes only one strip of smoked venison. The taste of it blooms heady and warm on his tongue and Jon relishes the feel of something solid between his teeth, savoring each small, meager bite. After months of watered stew and dry mash, he can feel his body perk up more each time he swallows.

Mirma watches him eat, eyeing him closely. “You’re getting some of that strength back,” she says, her tone relieved but icy.

“Sorry,” Jon says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t meet her eyes. Mirma was his first true friend after exiling himself North. He betrayed her as much as he betrayed Tormund.

“Shut up,” she huffs. She sits beside Jon, pulling a blanket over her shoulders. It’s icy in the hut, and they lean in close to the fire, waiting for Tormund to return.

* * *

Jon rolls over gingerly, pleased that the ache in his body has waved to a distant echo, his muscles pulling from lack of use rather than infection. With two hands, he sets a few more logs onto the dying fire, stoking it back to life. Outside the wind is howling, blessedly bereft of snow and ice. Jon can hear it whistling over the top of the snow covered hut. Tormund is spread-eagled across the bed of hay and fur, a foot tucked under Ghost’s sleeping bulk. He snores over the roar of the wind, a familiar sound to Jon now, soothing, and he wonders if he’d ever sleep again without Tormund snoring nearby. 

At his side by the fire, Jon can watch the shadows play across his face, the broken curve of Tormund’s nose and swell of his cheeks beneath the firey red of his beard. Tormund’s brow is smooth in sleep, the wrinkles across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes a little harder to see low light of the fire. Jon traces them with his eyes, and then with his thumb, barely brushing Tormund’s face with a fingertip. 

He jumps when Tormund opens his eyes.

“Could feel you starin’ at me,” Tormund says, voice gruff with sleep, but a smile stretching his face. He rolls onto his side, throwing an arm around Jon’s waist and tugging him to his chest. “Back to not sleeping already?”

Jon hums noncommittally. His hand is still on Tormund’s face, and he forces himself to stay there, to not pull away.

It’s just the two of them here. Tormund who cares for Jon, who brushes bristly kisses to Jon’s head, like it isn’t wrong, like it’s safe to do. Like it's the right thing to do.

“ _I love you_ ,” Tormund had said.

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

Jon looks up, and Tormund’s eyes are soft and worried. That now familiar feeling rises up in Jon again, that animal that living beneath his skin, clawing its way up his throat. He knows what it is, but it’s too big and scary for Jon to think about, so instead he leans up, crossing those few inches between them and presses a kiss to Tormund’s lips.

The hand on Jon’s hip clenches, fisting in his thick clothes, and Tormund starts to push him away. So Jon holds his face a little tighter, fingers sinking into Tormund’s wild hair, and tilts his head just right, kissing Tormund deeper.

Tormund’s chest vibrates with a groan, pulling Jon instead even closer. He rolls them until he’s pressing Jon into the ground, his mouth hot and wet against Jon’s, their teeth clacking, their lips wet and slick. Distantly, Jon knows trembling, hands shaking on either side of Tormund’s face as he holds him there, but Tormund’s kisses are soothing and deep and warm. 

Jon doesn’t want it to stop.

Tormund is a heavy weight above Jon, surrounding him and pinning him to the furs. Jon gasps into his mouth, an all-too-familiar heat pooling heavy in his belly, and when Tormund bites at his lip, Jon’s hips buck up involuntarily, his cock filling with the quick brush of friction and Jon freezes.

“S-Sorry,” he manages, embarrassed, but Tormund has backed away an inch, looking at him with a face of shock, surprise. Shame fills Jon, draining away the heat in his face, and he shakes harder, suddenly afraid.

But then Tormund smiles, a slow stretch across his face, his beard twitching and his teeth flashing white in the firelight.

“Got a problem, Snow?” he says, eyes twinkling and hand shifting on Jon’s hip.

And Jon gasps again, the fire and the want filling him all at once as Tormund’s hand brushes against the bulge in his pants. He wants Tormund to touch him. He’s always, always wanted Tormund to touch him, and now that he is, Jon doesn’t want it to end.

“Please,” he breathes and Tormund’s hand becomes firm against him, palming him fully and Jon bucks up into the feel of Tormund’s thick fingers against his cock.

“Tell me to stop,” Tormund murmurs against Jon’s mouth, his beard scratching along Jon’s face and neck, and Jon gasps, shaking his head violently. He doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t think he can stop now. And Tormund moans, kisses Jon again, his tongue heavy and wet, sliding between Jon’s lips.

Tormund’s hands are cold when they manage to work their way beneath Jon’s clothes, fingers splayed against the bare skin of his stomach, his touch sending hot chills across Jon’s skin. Jon is so unbearably hard in his pants, and he gasps, arching his back when Tormund ruts down against him, the heavy length of Tormund's erection grinding down against his own.

Jon’s fingers are tangled in Tormund’s wild hair, and Jon can only hold on as Tormund loosens his belt, his cock falling against Jon’s naked skin, leaving a wet trail over his belly. 

“Fuck,” Tormund breathes, his voice a high rasp against Jon’s neck. “Fuck, what you do to me Jon.”

“Please—” Jon chokes, trying to pull Tormund closer, closer. He feels fever-weak, like he had for all those days before, too-hot all over, the world around him blurry and far away. “Tor…”

“I have you,” Tormund says. His words shake, and his hands, the whole of him trembling and curled over Jon as he pushes Jon’s pants down. He bites at Jon’s neck, breath catching in his throat like a sob, and wrapping his fingers around the both of their aligned cocks. Jon aches and trembles and fucks up into Tormund’s fist. “I have you, Jon.”

It’s almost too much, and Jon’s heart hurts deep, deep in his chest. It hurts in a way that’s good, a heavy, wonderful weight sitting between his ribs, in a way that steals his breath, in a way that makes the world brighter, warmer. Summer blooming in the dead of winter.

The beast that lives in his chest howls.

Fingers sliding to cup the back of Tormund’s head, Jon pulls him up again, kissing Tormund and tasting his air, his tongue, the sudden salty sting of his tears on his face.

“You have me,” Jon says, a barely-there whisper. He feels like he’s falling apart. “And I have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://yabakuboi.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/yabakuboi)! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧


	10. our hands hurt from healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i have smut every chapter from here on out? probably

That’s the year that the lake freezes solid. No matter how deep they cut into the ice, there is no water and no fish for them draw to the surface. The forest and sky alike are covered in black, the ground beneath them a cold, lifeless crust. There is life still though—scarce and starving, but there is life.

They live off of snow melt and night berries, the fruits that bloom on trees whose roots slither deep into the ground for warmth and nutrients. They hunt the northern beasts that thrive in the darkness to fill their stomachs, and keep their goats and chickens warm inside their tents, even though their fur and eyes go pale in the darkness. Without the sun, they track the days by counting the moons, watching as it crosses the sky each night. And at the end of each year, they butcher a pig for good fortune in the next.

The entire night, Tormund doesn’t leave Jon’s side, holding him close and eating with just one hand. Jon tries to bury his shame away, unable to meet anyone’s eye, a stiff log under Tormund's arm. The village chatters around them, quiet and unassuming, and no one looks at them twice.

The sky is blessedly clear, the stars and moon shining down on their bonfire and feast.

“It’s a good omen,” Hrenna says, her lips shiny with grease, still chewing on her portion of meat. “Maybe the sun will rise soon.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. He’s tired of the darkness and the slow hunger that grows in him every day. Ghost hasn’t risen from his slumber in months, and Jon’s glad that the direwolf can sleep enough for the two of them.

Tormund turns and thoughtlessly presses a kiss to Jon’s head, his beard scratching along the scars of Jon’s face. Jon stiffens and Tormund does the same just after. He moves to pull away, his arm slipping from Jon's back, until Jon clutches at him, holding him steady.

“Sorry,” Tormund whispers. He settles his arm around Jon’s back again, but only after Jon forcefully hides himself into Tormund's side.

“It’s fine,” Jon says, unable to look up from the ground, swallowing down the urge to run, to hide away. “If I don’t have to apologize to you, you don’t have to apologize to me.”

Snorting, Tormund relaxes around him, leaning into Jon. He doesn’t say anything the rest of the night.

* * *

The new year begins soon after with a blizzard that keeps everyone in for days. Snow piles higher and higher, covering their homes in icy layers and they constantly have to dig new holes for air. Only a few brave the gales and the white out, making a round from home to home to check that no one has frozen in the night. Mostly they sleep, those of them who can. Jon passes his time whittling buttons and spoons and bowls, knife handles for steel they don’t have, carving swirling designs into their sides. He gets so good at it that Whitebone actually offers him a blanket for a new handle on his blade when he stops by. Jon ends up offending him.

“You can have it.”

Whitebone reels backwards, his face twisted up in a scowl. “Fuck that, I’ll trade you.”

“We’re in the middle of winter, idiot,” Jon snaps back. “Don’t trade a blanket for some wood.” 

“I don’t get cold and it’s a good trade. I’m not some thief.”

“I didn’t say you were, I’m giving it to you!”

“Why in the seven hells would you just give it to me?!”

Tormund just watches the back and forth, laughing at the two of them. In the end, Jon gets a new blanket, and Whitebone stomps from the hut cursing Jon for the knife handle, a large bowl, and a comb Jon had made while thinking of Sansa. Later, Jon will notice the comb tangled in Hrenna’s wild, blonde hair and will feel a little better about the whole thing.

“Why must all of you wildlings be so stubborn?” Jon sighs, coming to sit at Tormund’s side. He presses himself into Tormund’s chest and wraps his arms around his middle. Tormund holds him back, burying his face in Jon’s hair with a smile.

“And why must you southerners be so complicated?” Tormund says good-naturedly. He trails kisses down Jon’s face, lips soft and beard course against his skin.

“Not a southerner.” Jon hesitates, but turns his head to meet Tormund’s mouth.

Tormund hums against Jon’s lips, kissing him carefully. He’s always so careful with Jon, handling him delicately, and Jon hates how he loves it, the way Tormund tenderly cups his neck, his kisses soft and leading. He feels like something precious in Tormund’s hands. It aches through Jon’s core, something shameful, but oh, so wonderful to just be _held_.

“Jon,” Tormund breathes, backing up just an inch, his voice barely a whisper, saying Jon’s name just because he can.

Jon can barely handle it, the amount of love he can hear in Tormund’s voice, so he pulls Tormund back, crashing their mouths together, teeth clacking, and Tormund groans deep in his chest. Jon swallows it, matches it with his own, already feeling light-headed as he crawls into Tormund’s lap. 

“I—” he starts to say, but he doesn’t know what was supposed to come next when Tormund grabs him by his thighs and hauls him closer. Jon finds himself stradling Tormund’s lap, and he can feel the shape of Tormund’s cock, large and hard and pressing firm against Jon’s ass where he’s sat atop it.

“Okay?” Tormund pants, his mouth on Jon’s neck, biting kisses down to his shoulder.

Wordless, Jon nods. He feels flushed and drunk, trembling in Tormund’s hold as he sheds him of his shirt and opens up his britches. Tormund drags his hands across the smooth expanse of Jon’s chest and down his belly, fingers tracing the path of pink scars down to his hip. His skin pebbles under the touch, exposed to the cold, pale and alight in the fire’s glow. 

Atop Tormund, Jon is tall and he looks down to meet Tormund’s eyes, shining and blue and gold. Tormund holds his gaze, even as his face dips lower, biting at Jon’s collarbones and then lower until his teeth catch on Jon’s nipple.

Jon gasps, hands spasming against Tormund’s shoulders, and Tormund licks at him, their eyes still locked together.

“Okay?” he asks again, breath hot on Jon’s skin.

“Y-Yes,” Jon chokes, shuddering when Tormund’s mouth sucks at his chest, lips bright against the dusky pink of his nipple. Tormund’s hand travels lower, massaging Jon’s growing erection. “It’s just strange,” Jon whispers, tugging harshly against Tormund’s hair.

“S’just us here,” Tormund says. He tips Jon backwards until he’s sprawled across their bed. “Just you and me.”

Nodding, Jon does his best to bite back his whimpering as Tormund licks him with a hot, devilish tongue, across his chest and down his navel, nose pressed into the thick hair at the base of Jon’s belly. He trembles, finger’s shaking in Tormund’s hair, as Tormund breathes against his cock.

“Ever had you dick sucked, pup?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

Jon feels like he’s shaking out of his skin. “Shut up, of course I have.”

“Not by a man, though.” Tormund says it like a question that he already knows the answer to. Weakly Jon shakes his head, hyper-focused on Tormund’s hands on his hips, holding him down as Tormund shoots him a devastatingly handsome grin before he wraps his lips around Jon’s cock and swallows him down.

“Tor—!” Jon chokes, hips jerking in Tormund’s hold. He twists his fingers in red hair, and he can feel when Tormund smiles around his cock. And Tormund is relentless, sucking and licking, tongue swirling.

He comes embarrassingly soon, over as fast as it had started, and Tormund drinks it down, Jon shuddering in his mouth. Jon is boneless and limp when Tormund pulls off of him, mouth hot and salty as he kisses Jon again. He doesn’t spare a thought as he tastes himself on Tormund’s lips, kissing Tormund back as he fumbles with the front of his pants, jerking his cock firmly until he comes over Jon’s belly.

“Okay?” Tormund pants, collapsing over Jon, his weight heavy and suffocating and comforting. He buries his face against Jon’s neck, worrying at what is sure to be a sizable love-bite on his skin.

“Yes,” Jon breathes, wrapping his arms around Tormund’s neck.

* * *

Jon wakes to the dying light of the cooling fire and the dark eyes of Catelyn Stark. The shock of it makes his heart pound, but he cannot move, frozen against Tormund’s side.

Catelyn’s smile is gentle in a way that Jon has only glimpsed, moments where he was an unseen intruder, witness to a mother’s love to her children. Jon had always been so jealous of that smile, even when it became apparent that it was something he would never win.

He winces when she reaches out, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering when she runs her hand over his scalp, her touch as cool and gentle as a summer stream. There are tears on her face, and blood along her neck, and Jon suddenly realizes that her skin is river green and mottled and rotten.

“Thank you, nephew,” she says. “For being a good brother to my children.”

Jon wakes with a shout, his face damp and hands shaking. Tormund is at his side in an instant, abandoning his task of feeding the fire.

“Gods, you’ll scare me to my grave one of these days, Jon,” Tormund hisses, his hand on Jon’s chest as if he can slow Jon’s pounding heart. “What in the hells do you dream about?”

“Ghosts,” Jon says, running his hands through his sweaty hair. “Just ghosts.”

Tormund’s eyes soften. “You must be haunted well and good by the worst of them.”

Laying back together, his head on Tormund’s shoulder, Jon hums. “Not the worst,” he says, tiredly. “Just too many.”

“I see.” Tormund regards him for a long moment, his fingers sweeping over the fuzz along Jon’s jaw, brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. “They should leave you in peace then.”

Jon says nothing, rolling onto his side until he’s half sprawled across Tormund, their legs tangling in the blankets. Outside the wind howls, a never ending winter storm, and the lay huddled together waiting for it to pass.


End file.
